


Those Complicated Teenage Things, Even After Thirty

by GlitterDwarf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterDwarf/pseuds/GlitterDwarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viktor ruins (fixes) everything Ron left behind. (Written in 2006)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Complicated Teenage Things, Even After Thirty

Morning routines. Harry groans, scratches himself, stretches, climbs out of bed. Hermione rolls over silently. She doesn't have to get up for another hour, which is just find with Harry because he is usually out of the house by this time, or at least eating the last few crumbs of his tea and draining his tea cup when she steps into the shower. 

According to his routine, he will now be leaving the room, taking a quick shower, making a quick breakfast, and quickly consuming it so he can leave quite quickly. Instead, he stays back to look at his wife of seven years. 

It's nice to see her like this, sometimes. She's usually so impeccable and perfect and fucking done, so it's amazing to see her hair a horrible, raggedy mess. Her mouth is slightly open and there is a wet spot on her pillow where she has drooled. 

He smiles. He likes her like this, how he always could see her – imperfect, sloppy, rushed, but still pretty. It's undeniable. She's undeniable. 

He sighs and leaves. His shower is rushed, his breakfast is rushed and burned. And, just as he stuffs the piece of bread into his mouth, he hears the telling gurgle, then rush that means Hermione is taking her shower. 

Harry shoves the rest of the toast into his mouth, swallows, then grabs his mug of tea and apparates. 

 

Work is work, thinks Harry. He frowns, scribbles something, and looks at the clock. Nine-fifteen. Only been at work for an hour. Sighs, goes back to his paper. Tries to decipher what he's written. Crumbles it up, throws it in the general direction of the waste-backet. Fails. Wonders if he could have made the Quidditch team eight years ago. Abandons that thought. 

For some reason, he always thought the life of an Auror would be a lot more exciting. 

Well. 

 

He comes home one night hearing Hermione's laughter, which makes him ache, but just a little bit. Still, he isn't quite prepared when he sees a familiar shape on his couch, the curve of that nose, the shade of that skin. 

Viktor Krum has not changed. 

Hermione looks up at Harry and her smile falters just a bit. Harry bites his lip, because this shouldn't make her feel guilty, and she knows it. She sets her mug down (green and pink stripes, he thinks, and he remembers buying that one with her. The snickers, because it was the only thing they bought. The running away from the store like children.) and grins at him, that flash of white teeth almost teasing. 

"Harry, Viktor is moving to England," she explains. 

Harry nods and looks at Viktor, who is looking at his own hands. 

"Nice to see you again," he says, taking off his jacket. 

Hermione smiles, uncrosses her legs and scrambles off of the couch. She walks over and kisses Harry on the cheek, unshaved, something she hates. He knows she hates it, but he did it anyway. 

"I'll get you something to drink," she says, rushing off to their kitchen as if it is so far away. 

Harry looks at Viktor, who is looking at him, so intensely that he feels like Viktor is trying to peel Harry's skin off with his eyes. 

"I'm not sleeping with your wife," he says, blunt. Harry shrugs and is silent as he puts his jacket on the rack, turning away. 

"I wouldn't mind. Somebody ought to." 

When he looks back, Viktor is looking at him, and his eyes are saying a lot of things. Harry tries to say a lot of things back. 

 

 

Sometimes, Harry dreams about the day his life stood still. 

He can kind of remember it. The smells, mostly, are what strikes him, in the middle of this dream, where everything else is fuzzy and unclear, but the smells ambush his senses like he is right there, right back there, in the middle of it. She smell of boiling water, the heavy moisture in the air as he opens up the pot where Hermione keeps the rose tea. 

Ron is at the market, buying something, and Hermione is taking the opportunity to practice her vows to Harry. 

"I haven't loved everything about you, not really, but I do. I can't help it." 

Harry smiles at her. 

The doorbell rings. 

After that, it's even more hazy. Just the smell of Hermione's shampoo mixed with tears and snot. The sounds of her falling to the floor. Hit and run, the wizard says. A muggle death. Mr. Weasley will be thrilled. 

Then, himself, in bed with Hermione. He feels he owes it to her. If not Ron, then him, she says. She loves him, too. 

Except they both know it isn't the same way, and that sex isn't anything more than them trying to forget how painful their lives are. 

They never said that they would be dedicated to each other. They both knew that they would sleep around, if they wanted to, if they needed it. But it was nice to be with somebody. 

Still, in his dream, Harry doesn't see this. All he sees is the tear on Hermione's cheek and how the tear becomes plural, countless drops of salt-water pouring out from her eyes, her mouth, and Ron in the corner pulling his own teeth, his own hair, his fingers, everything off of himself until he is nothing like he should be. 

"Happy now, Harry?" he asks. 

It didn't happen this way. Hermione cried, but not too much. And Ron was definitely, horribly, not there. 

But it could have happened like this. 

 

 

Viktor is solid against Harry's back. He can feel the muscles in the other man's stomach clenching as he moves his hips, so slowly, so deliberately, pushing into Harry. 

Harry bites his own hand to keep from sobbing. Oh, he thinks. Oh. 

He had forgotten how good it feels to just feel, sometimes, not emotions but pleasure, rippling through him like a flood. 

He comes quickly, feeling guilty. Viktor doesn't say anything, just keeps on thrusting, in and out, in and out, until he comes, too. 

They lay there for awhile, in Viktor's flat, until Harry thinks that maybe his lunch break is over, and that maybe nobody will care. 

"So have you done this to Hermione, too?" he asks. 

Viktor nods against Harry's back, tracing the lines of Harry's hands with his finger. 

"Good," Harry says. 

"Maybe you could join us sometime?" Viktor suggests. Harry thinks. It makes sense, of course. But then, it's scary, because the only things that have ever made sense to him eventually go away. 

"Maybe." 

 

Hermione is beautiful, Harry thinks as he kisses her shoulder. She doesn't make him think about sex, much, which is amazing because everything makes him think about sex, even now, even at thirty-two. She just makes him think about warm sun, big smiles, teeth, freckles, and all of the good things in life. 

So he worships her, or tries, tells her how he feels about her with his body. 

Viktor is pushing into her like he pushed into Harry the day before, except she is on her back and she is more flexible than Harry. She looks happy, or gone, whichever. Her mouth is open, her neck is back, and Harry knows she is feeling something good. 

Viktor rumbles somewhere to Harry's right, moves his hand to stroke Harry's cock. 

And this is what Hermione is feeling, he thinks. 

 

 

"You don't need me anymore," Viktor says. 

Harry shrugs. 

"I want you," he says. He thinks of Hermione and how she has been looking more peaceful lately. 

Viktor laughs and pulls the hem of Harry's shirt out of his pants. 

How warm her hugs have been when he gets home. 

"I want you too," he whispers huskily into Harry's ear. 

Harry shivers. How good it feels to get up in the morning. 

"I know what you're thinking," Viktor continues as his hot fingers run lines up and down Harry's body. "But it wasn't me. Was you. You two." 

Harry shrugs. 

"Can we have sex now?" 

Viktor laughs, unzips his pants. 

 

Morning routines, Harry thinks when he gets up in the morning. He knows he should go, take his shower, make his breakfast, and apparate away quickly. He has a pile of work to do waiting for him, his boss has been on his ass lately, and he is still tired. 

But, instead, he waits around for a bit at the breakfast table, sipping his tea slowly. 

When Hermione comes out, she is like she always is – perfect and done up and looking good, like she is about to go to a prestigious place and work her ass off, which she is. She kisses him on the cheek and pours herself a mug of tea. He should have done that. 

He can't give her much. But, as the sun hits her skin from the window, he thinks, I love her, not like she deserves or needs, but I do love her. 

And maybe, just maybe, it's enough.


End file.
